


Fumbling Towards

by JinkyO



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs in a Car, Drug-Induced Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is obviously under the influence of something. Harold just wants to get them both home but John has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fumbling Towards

**Author's Note:**

> From sethklee's tumblr prompt: Speeding Ticket AU

The headlights cut through the wooded and winding, deep black of the Teconic State Parkway. Their recent Number has taken them far upstate where they successfully foil a murder for hire plot, but not without some damage. John spends most of the early part of the drive singing loudly out of the car window and accompanying himself by drumming his hands on the dashboard – something about a “Jack and Diane”. He falls quiet on occasion and stares out into the dark night sky for a while, then he resumes the song.

Now, he is quiet again and Harold hopes to get them back to the safe house without incident so they can both sleep off the effects of the night. But one of the things that makes John Reese so effective at his job is his unpredictability and Harold’s hopes go unanswered.

 

“John! Stop!”

Reese, mouth open, draws back.

“I’m pulling over.” 

“Even better.” A slow smile spreads over his face. “Find some place secluded.”

“Please sit up, Mr. Reese!” Harold cries as he grips down hard over the leather steering wheel and scans the dark for a safe parking shoulder. They still have an hour’s drive ahead of them to the city. _Oh, the things John can do in an hour._   “I’m not sure what the apparently -not!- innocent Ms. Vanderlay slipped into your drink, but you’re obviously under the influence of something.” 

“Why would you say a thing like that?” John’s voice is slurred but his fingers are steady as he pulls Harold’s belt open, then the button front fly.

“Not like this, John,” Harold groans. He’s hard despite himself.

“The date is June 14.” John slips his hand inside of Harold’s silk boxers. “Barack Obama is the President of the United States.  You enjoy a good blow job like nobody’s business.” He folds his fingers around Harold’s length and Harold forces himself to sit still in his seat. “You call me John Reese. I call you Harold Finch.” John’s warm lips close over the tip for a moment before he pulls off with a wet *pop*. “But you go by many other names: Wren, Burdett, Partridge, Crane…” John punctuates each name with a sloppy kiss to Harold’s body. “You’re right, Vanderlay dosed the drinks with something.” John giggles. “Doesn’t feel fatal.”

Harold’s eyes widen in alarm and he makes a futile attempt to shoo John away. “According to the GPS there’s a gas station in two exits.”

“According to my mouth you taste great.”

“You’re not in full control of your senses John.” Harold tries to nudge a persistent John out of his lap while keeping the car on the road.

“Z, Y, X, W, V… Should I keep going?” His breath is warm against Harold’s damp skin.

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Harold chokes out. John's hair is soft under his fingers.

“Because you think I don’t know what I’m doing, or because you really want me to stop?”

“We’re not teenagers, John.”

“Thank god. Teenagers don’t pack this kind of heat.” John says in between a series of tiny licks just under Harold’s crown.

“I’m driving, John!”

“So keep your eyes on the road. I’ll take care of things down here.”

“Oh, noooo…” Harold wails as John sinks down over him.

Harold  _does_  enjoy a good blow job. He enjoys the occasional bad one. He enjoys all of the things he does with John Reese in their down time between numbers. He enjoys  _this_.

John makes himself comfortable over the seats of the roomy town car and takes his time. He works Harold over, wet and sloppy, teasing him to release only to pull off and then start all over again.

The repetitive yellow lane divider goes on and on ahead of him, and John’s willing mouth and throat surround him, Harold sinks back into his seat in an almost hypnotic state. But Harold is no mystic. This is no moment of enlightenment.

He is certain, however, that if he can only jump start the rational part of his brain, disengage it from the overload of John’s deep, wet, suction, from the rough scratch of John’s cheek on his trembling thighs each time John pushes down and swallows him to the root – if he can shift his focus from the heady scent of them together, and John’s long fingers curling down between his legs – if Harold can put all of that aside, he is certain he can see the analytic formula behind this moment of pure, unabashed, bliss as he spills inside John’s warm mouth.

Harold sinks the accelerator to the floor as he exhales.

John is lapping him clean when the whine of a siren and flash of red and blue lights coloring the interior of the car jolts Harold to reality.

The red speedometer needle is vibrating just above the 110 MPH tick. Harold jerks his foot off the pedal.

“John, sit up!”

“Too late,” John drawls as he carefully packs Harold back into his fly front. “Imagine how much worse it looks if my head suddenly pops up?”

“I’m having a hard time imaging any scenario where this doesn’t look suspicious,” Harold snaps back. He maneuvers the car to the side of the road and waits until John shifts out of his lap to slump against the passenger door in a feigned sleep before he finally stops and cuts the engine.


End file.
